This Rain a-Raging
by Signy1
Summary: The Skipper's thoughts as he stands at the helm of his crippled ship in the middle of an uncaring ocean. They're alone out there, drifting and helpless; it's just him, reflecting on his ruined ship, the six lives for which he's responsible and the fact that there's not a single thing he can do... except stay strong.


The song the Skipper is thinking of is called 'A Sailor's Prayer,' by Rod MacDonald, and it was written in 1978. Which is to say that it is not an old sea song, and there is absolutely no way the Skipper could ever have heard it, at least not at the time of the shipwreck. I'm not apologizing for the anachronism; it's a lovely piece of music, and has been covered by any number of artists. The Skipper deserved to know the song; he would have liked it.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV 

She's not bucking underneath him any longer; the storm has well and truly subsided, and the seas are calm. Too calm. They're drifting, and he can't even tell where. He thinks they're south of Honolulu, probably pretty far south, at that, and that they're heading further southwards, but they're moving so gently, so slowly, that he's not certain of even that much. This tour had definitely gone south, and in more ways than one.

 _Though the night wind chills me to my very soul/ Though the salt spray stings my eyes, and the stars no sight provide/ Give me just enough morning light to hold._

She'd tried so hard. She had done her best for him; she always had, but she hadn't been exactly top of the line when she was built, and her long years of being tossed around the seven seas were no secret. He pats her now-useless wheel, fondly, forgivingly. The rudder must have gone even before the anchor had; he still remembers how he tried to steer, and felt the wheel spinning like a phonograph turntable with no effect at all. They'd played a game of roulette, and they'd all lost.

She'd kept them afloat, though. She'd kept them safe.

 _I will not lie me down, this rain a-raging, I will not lie me down, in such a storm/ And if this night be unblessed, I shall not take my rest/ Until I reach another shore._

The five passengers are still huddled belowdecks. They're not whining or complaining; he has to give them that much credit. They're not asking any more questions he can't answer, none of the 'Where are we' or 'How are we going to get home' entreaties, with the desperation and the fear in their voices growing less and less hidden as the hours dragged on. Maybe they just got tired of watching him try not to admit that he didn't know. God knew he was tired of having to admit it.

 _Though my mates be worn and weary, and it seems all hopes are lost/ There's no need for their bones on that black sea bottom._

Gilligan's looking pretty close to collapse, poor kid. He'd been dividing his time for the last thirty hours between working the pumps like a madman and keeping the passengers calm—'Don't you worry about a thing, folks; Skipper's the best there is. We've been through much worse storms than this one. Why, you should have seen him back on our destroyer…'—and amazingly, it had worked. Somehow, his utter certainty that they had nothing to fear, that this was only a bit more of an adventure than advertised, was contagious. He trusted the Skipper implicitly. And the frightened passengers trusted him.

The passengers don't see the grim determination in his boyish face as he mans the pumps, and they aren't going to, either; somehow he always finds just one more cheerful grin for them. And there's no fear in his eyes, even as he fights with the pumps to stay a bucket or two ahead of the sea. They're taking on a lot of water, so either the seams of the hull are leaking, or there's a hole somewhere. Probably both. He's not giving up, though, and he's not letting the passengers give up, and maybe that's what's giving the Skipper the strength he needs to keep from giving up, himself.

The Skipper is reasonably certain that Gilligan didn't notice that he'd slipped a portion of his own food into his first mate's mess tin. He's entirely certain that Gilligan thinks that he hadn't noticed when Gilligan poured some of his own water ration into the Skipper's canteen. He's less and less certain that they're going to be found before they've run out of food and water entirely. He'd never carried much in the way of provisions; the Minnow just plain wasn't meant for a long haul. It's water that really worries him, though; if they're lucky, it'll rain again, and they can collect the rainwater to drink. They haven't been noticeably lucky so far, but sooner or later that has to change, right?

And the words of an old song keep rattling through his mind, over and over like a broken record, until it seems that even the waves are keeping time.

 _And though Death waits off the bow, We'll not answer to him now/ We'll hold on and face the morning light without him._

He's not giving up. He will not lie down and die, and for damned sure he won't let the people who trusted him die, either. He'll hold on. He has to. He'll hold on… until they reach another shore.


End file.
